


Far From Sure

by youaremyscience



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaremyscience/pseuds/youaremyscience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some questions even Sherlock Holmes can't answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far From Sure

          “Again, John? Honestly. What do you get out of this?”

          John Watson is getting tired of answering variations of this same old question. He’s had it from half the Yard and most of his coworkers. Not to mention all of his family, which to be fair is only one slightly insufferable sister, but the frequency with which she asks the question more than makes up for her solitary number.

          “I’m serious, John. Why do you keep letting yourself get sucked into these situations?”

          She’s leaning against the front door of 221B Baker Street, and glaring at the newest set of bandages gracing John’s body. It’s his wrist this time.

          “It’s only a sprain,” he dismisses and makes to enter the door. Harry shoots an arm out and blocks his path.

          “I don’t pretend to understand your relationship with this guy. But he gets you hurt. Why do you stick around?”

          “Harry. Two things. First, it’s not a relationship. Second, I don’t have to answer to you.” He fixes her with the best glare he can manage, but there’s no real heat since he knows Harry is only trying to help. If only everyone would stop trying to help. And stop calling it a relationship. And stop acting like John was just some tagalong, hopelessly pulled along with Sherlock. He made his own choices. The choice to follow Sherlock Holmes, regardless of where it may lead him. And yes, sometimes that got him hurt. But more often, it saved them both.

+

          “How’s the arm?” Sherlock shoots the question his way without looking up from John’s laptop,

          “Sprain. No big deal.” He flops down in his chair and heaves a sigh.

          “For the record, I offered your sister to wait inside for you. She declined.”

          “Thanks for trying, anyway.”

          “I take it her goal was the same?”

          “What’s that?”

          “Trying to get you to leave me.”

          John squirms a little at the intimacy of the phrasing. Sherlock is seemingly blind to all concerns about categorizing their friendship, and god knows the boundaries aren’t clear, but for John’s peace of mind he prefers as little ambiguity as possible from his friend. “I’m not going anywhere. She knows that. She just feels like she has to keep trying.”

          Sherlock finally looks up and turns his piercing gaze onto John. “Why would she feel like that?”

          “Oh, you know. I’ve saved her life, she thinks she ought to save mine.”

          “Because obviously being with me is life-threatening.”

          John wiggles a little in his seat, again uncomfortable at Sherlock’s choice of words. He gazes back mildly. “Can’t blame her for a bit of concern, I suppose. This is my third A&E visit in as many weeks.”

          “That’s not my fault!”

          “I didn’t say it was, Sherlock.” John closes his eyes. The sprain really is very mild, but he spent ages waiting. Despite his apparent nonchalance about the injury, Sherlock had insisted rather vigorously that John have it tended to by a medical professional – “It might be a fracture, John, don’t be annoying about this!” – and had even waited with him until John became so frustrated by his pacing and fidgeting that he’d assured him he didn’t need company, and Sherlock had shot him a grateful look and swept out of the building in a blur.

          They pass the rest of the evening in their usual companionable silence, until John heads for a shower and bed, leaving Sherlock staring at the laptop.

+

          The next morning John wraps his wrist to prevent worsening the sprain and heads off to work. He doesn’t see Sherlock before he leaves, which is hardly unusual, as in the absence of a case, Sherlock will sleep until well after ten.

          Sherlock listens to John’s morning routine. Quick shower. Tea. Out the door. He leaves off waking up to the last minute then rushes through his morning. Then he savors his days off, takes ages to eat breakfast, lounges around in his pajamas half the day. This is a contradiction Sherlock does not understand. If he enjoys a leisurely morning, why not wake up earlier? After nearly a decade in the military, there is no way John is averse to waking up early.

          Sherlock hasn’t slept. He has thought about John, being injured once again trying to protect him. He had lied the previous day, of course. Harry had come up when he’d offered. She’d come up, and sat in John’s chair, and given Sherlock one of her semi-regular lectures on how he needs to leave her poor brother alone. John knew nothing of these lectures. He would’ve spluttered and raged and then done nothing about it anyway, so Sherlock had simply spared him the frustration of knowing exactly how meddlesome his sister could be.

          If only it were just an older sister’s protective instinct. Sherlock could’ve taken that, and not been affected. He could possibly even have stood Lestrade’s chiding him, and Mrs. Hudson’s tutting (or pressing a bag of shopping into his hand and furtively whispering, “Just pretend you got the milk, it’ll make him so happy!”) and Mycroft’s entirely unhelpful and thinly veiled attempts to ensure that one Dr. Watson did not get frightened off by his mad brother (“Honestly, Sherlock, I think he’s helpful to you. Please do try to keep him around”). But the combination was sometimes a bit much. Sure, John had been injured a few times. So had Sherlock. And he didn’t force John into anything! Why did everyone seem to think that John was a victim in this? If anything, it was the other way around.

          Sherlock didn’t bristle at these intrusions simply to be contrary. It genuinely irritated him that no one seemed to think that he could keep a friend. It was hardly his fault the past few flatmates hadn’t worked out, was it? He was very careful, as he had been with John, to lay out what he thought might be sticking points before anyone entered into a contract with him. He didn’t relish the idea of getting kicked out in the middle of the night and having to ask Mycroft to help him again.

          Everyone felt like Sherlock needed to change to keep John, which bothered him in a way he couldn’t quite place. As long as he didn’t go into John’s room, or use the last of the hot water, or forget to put things back into the refrigerator, he and John got along well. He gave John some of the excitement he needed, and John provided a quiet companionship that Sherlock hadn’t realized he wanted until he had it.

          Why would he do anything to jeopardize that? And John never complained about an occasional injury. Why should everyone treat him like a villain?

          And why should it bother him so?

+       

          The issue continued to weigh on Sherlock’s mind. Three days after John sprains his wrist, Lestrade comes by with a missing person case. Sherlock seizes the opportunity to occupy his mind some other way, and after nearly ten hours of making university students very, very nervous, Sherlock has a very good tip on the girl’s whereabouts.

          “All right, her friends seem to think there’s been an issue with a boyfriend and she’s gone off on her own to, and these are not my words, ‘deal with it.’ You’ll come with me, John?”

          “Of course. Poor girl’s dealing with something personal and delicate. Maybe I can help.”

          “You just think I won’t help.”

          “Not that you won’t want to, Sherlock, but the troubled love life of a twenty year old girl isn’t your area of expertise.”

          Sherlock scoffs. “It’s not yours, either!”

          “No, but the problems of love in general haven’t passed me by.” The unspoken implication of course being that they have passed Sherlock by. And although it is mostly true, it rankles him to think even John doesn’t believe he has any experience in the area. Honestly, he’s a 34 year old man, and despite many opinions to the contrary, he’s not asexual or aromantic. He’s just always found it a bit dull. He thinks, sometimes, that with the right person, he might not feel that way.

          They ride the remainder of the way in silence.

+

          It is not as simple as John expected it would be. The girl hasn’t run because of a breakup. She’s run because her boyfriend wants her dead. John’s not as observant as Sherlock but finding the boyfriend in question with a gun to her head made things abundantly clear. Sherlock quickly spins a cover story, that they were looking for the girl’s sister, this is her home after all, and they’re not trying to get in the middle of anything, and “We’ll just be off then, shall we?” keeping the gunman’s attention on him while John tenses to spring, an explosion of power most people wouldn’t believe him capable of, knocking his shoulder directly into the man’s chest, leaving him stunned and breathless, and John has the gun, Sherlock has the girl, and if it frightens either of them, they don’t show it. Just another day at the office, John thinks wryly, keeping the gun trained on the man as he backs towards the door.

          Sherlock has spirited the girl downstairs. If she has any sense she’s running for the police. Sherlock’s voice is tense. “John. We should get out of here. There’s nothing else we can do.”

          “What, leave him so as soon as we go he can track her down and finish the job? I’ll wait for the police, thanks.” He feels Sherlock’s fingers tugging gently at the hem of his coat, and he leans towards him, never taking his eyes (or the gun) off the man who is now starting to get his bearings back. He lumbers to his feet as Sherlock whispers “He’s a bastard but at this point there’s nothing the police can hold against him. We should focus on her. Get out of here before it gets…” and the word _dangerous_ is lost as the man seizes hold of a chair and Sherlock pushes John aside, only to receive the full brunt of the chair across his side. John abandons the gun to tackle the man at the legs. Sherlock picks up the gun and keeps it trained at the man’s head while John straddles the man’s chest, using his knees to pin the man’s arms. He looks down and laughs. “It was a good try, mate, but you have to get up earlier than that to get one over on us.” His blood is singing. They do this _so well_.

          Sherlock can’t stop a smile from spreading across his face. John is never so alive as when he’s just tackled someone to the ground. As he looks up at Sherlock, his own grin lighting up his face, something in Sherlock’s chest twists. Sherlock is never so fond of John as when he’s grinning at him precisely like that. This is where John is brilliant, where he feels he has purpose, and after the police arrive and Sherlock levels the assault charges at the man, they find a Thai restaurant and celebrate another successful, if “altogether disappointingly dull,” case.

+

          This time it’s Sherlock who needs medical attention, but he refuses, as always, to let anyone but John look at him. They sit in the kitchen, John’s fingers lightly pressing against Sherlock’s ribs, where a spectacular bruise is already forming. Sherlock hisses slightly at one press. “Sorry,” John soothes. “Have to be sure.”

          “I doubt anything is broken, John, he didn’t hit me with anything like enough force.”

          “He smashed you with a wooden chair that was meant for me; I’ll be as thorough as I want to be.” Once he is satisfied Sherlock has nothing more than a painful bruise, he starts to prepare an ice pack. “Thank you for that, by the way.” When he turns back to Sherlock, he finds the man steadfastly staring down at his hands, clasped in his lap. At John’s words, he gives a tiny start and absently pulls the fronts of his shirt together. When he starts to do his buttons, John is startled to see his fingers are trembling. “Sherlock?”

          Sherlock doesn’t raise his eyes from his lap, doesn’t answer. John always expects a bit of a sulk after a case where Sherlock gets hurt—the man likes to pretend he’s impervious. But something alarms John in his posture, in his trembling, in the sudden tight air of the room. Without thinking he cups Sherlock’s chin with his own steady hand and tilts his face up. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and twists out of John’s grasp. He stands abruptly, picks up the ice pack, and brushes past John without a word.

          “Hang on, Sherlock, what’s—“ John trails behind him and receives a slammed bedroom door in the face. He shakes his head and walks away. “Moody prat,” he mutters, with far more fondness than heat. John is used to Sherlock’s moods, the way his entire demeanor can change in an instant without any outward clues as to why.

          He can typically brush it off and go about his business, knowing when Sherlock is through with his strop, he’ll be back to his usual self. Sometimes he explains what’s happening in his head, but not usually.

          John shuts the lights off and starts up the stairs for his own room. Passing by Sherlock’s door, he pauses, presses a hand against the wood, and continues on. He does this without realizing it, as he has done countless other times before.

+

          Sherlock begrudgingly holds the ice against his sore ribs. He shouldn’t need it, the pain isn’t too bad, but he knows John will check again in the morning and if it’s swollen he’ll receive a Dr. Watson lecture. “Why do you have me look after you at all if you aren’t going to follow simple instructions?”

          Sherlock allows himself a smile. John can be irritating in those moments but he knows it comes from affection. He fleetingly wishes he were more injured, enough to show them all, it’s not just John getting hurt. They both get hurt. They both take risks. Perhaps they are bad for each other. But it isn’t Sherlock’s fault. He sets aside the ice to change into his t-shirt and pajama bottoms. He examines himself in the mirror for a moment and lays a hand against the blooming bruise, where John’s hands had pressed. He doesn’t know why that should make his throat tight. It doesn’t even hurt.

+

          “Feeling better?”

          Sherlock nods. John is in his pajamas at the kitchen table, reading the paper.

          “Want to tell me what your little mood was about last night, then?”

          Sherlock sits across from John and wordlessly grabs a piece of toast from his plate. “You were right. He was trying to attack you, not me. It’s always you who gets hurt, isn’t it?”

          “I can think of a few times you’ve had your neck wrung. More than a few times, actually, people can’t seem to get enough of strangling you.”

          “Are they right, John?” he asks, abruptly. He doesn’t speak without thinking but there the words are, and he certainly didn’t mean to say them. John just furrows his brow.

          “Are who right about what, Sherlock?”

          “That I’m bad for you. I get you hurt. That there’s nothing in this for you.”

          John is quiet for what seems to Sherlock a very long time. Eventually he swallows hard. “What brought this on?”

          He’s dodging the question. That can’t be a good sign. “You’ve had a bad run lately, and last night you could’ve gotten hurt again.”

          “I’ve been shot, Sherlock, do you really think I’m bothered by a few scrapes and bruises here and there?”

          “No. Of course you’re not, because you’re brave, and addicted to adrenaline. But that doesn’t make it right.”

          “I’m an adult, Sherlock, I can make my own choices about what is right for me. Regardless of what my sister might say.”

          “It isn’t just Harry! It’s Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft. All of them warning me all the time how I need to act so you don’t go away.” Sherlock presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. He can’t find the right words to explain this nagging feeling.

          “You’re not the only one who catches questions, Sherlock. I get it, too. But they don’t understand, Sherlock. None of them do.”

          “What questions? No, never mind, of course. ‘Why Sherlock?’ They don’t understand why you stick around. What’s in it for you?”

          “I think they don’t understand what this… is,” John says, as delicately as he can manage.

          “What’s there to understand? We’re flatmates. Colleagues. You come to crime scenes with me because you like to help.”

          “Friends, Sherlock. We’re friends. And, yes, I like to help.” There was something in his voice Sherlock couldn’t place.

          “Everyone seems to think it’s a bad idea for us to be friends.”

          “They’re all idiots. I thought you knew that better than anyone.”

          It comforts Sherlock to know that John feels this way. But it doesn’t erase the tangle of anxiety and confusion in his chest. He decides it is enough, for now, that John has called him a friend. He’s done it before, and Sherlock’s said the same of John, but there’s still pleasure in hearing it spoken aloud. He catalogues it and will never forget it. He will play those times back to himself when John goes.

+

          “What do you say to them when they ask?”

          John’s face is brilliant, Sherlock has been studying it for a year and there are still expressions he can’t categorize. Right now it is some new form of very brief confusion while he is clearly wracking his brain – that conversation was three days ago and he clearly hasn’t been playing and replaying it the way Sherlock has – followed by the slightly proud look he gets on when his brain catches up with Sherlock’s, and capped off with a tinge of frustration, though Sherlock doesn’t know why he’d be frustrated.

          “I don’t answer. My reasons aren’t anybody else’s business.”

          “So you do have reasons?”

          “Sherlock. Of course I do. Why do you keep coming back to this?”

          There it is, isn’t it? The question Sherlock himself can’t answer. 

          “Nothing, never mind.”

          “No, Sherlock, this is bothering you. I want to talk about it.”

          But Sherlock sits silently and resumes turning pages of his book, though John doesn’t buy the image. He stands and grabs the book from Sherlock’s hands and snaps it shut. “Sherlock.” He’s staring down, his face set into one of its more common expressions; equal parts annoyance and worry. ‘ _This is what you make him feel’_ floats across Sherlock’s mind before he bites down upon it, because that thought isn’t helping.

          “We don’t talk about it,” he offers, hoping John will know what he means. But John continues to stand before him, blinking and silent. “I thanked you. For what you offered. For me. But we didn’t talk about it. We don’t talk about it. How close you came to dying.”

          Whatever John was expecting to hear, this was clearly not it. He sinks into the chair beside Sherlock’s. “You came just as close as I did, if you’ll recall.”

          “You were willing to sacrifice your own life.”

          “You were willing to turn over state secrets to Moriarty.”

          “That’s hardly the same thing.”

          John is silent. “And it bothers you that I did that?”

          Sherlock shakes his head violently. “No, of course not. It confuses me.” Sherlock injects more venom in the word confuses than John has ever heard.

          “Why? What’s confusing about it, Sherlock?”

          “You would die to take out Moriarty. I can understand that, in an abstract way. I would’ve, too. But I can’t stop thinking about it. You stopped. You let go of him.”

          “In case you’ve forgotten, you had a bloody sniper’s rifle trained on your head.”

          “Why would that make you stop? What’s the difference? You were willing to die to stop him—“

          “Oh, hell, Sherlock. I was willing to die to save _you_. I couldn’t have cared less about stopping him!”

          He had never understood what people meant when they said words seemed to hang in the air, but there it was. He could almost see them, those words, I did it for you, swimming from his mouth to Sherlock’s ears, and he wanted to grab them and shove them back. The silence that followed was one of the thickest John had ever experienced. Sherlock was entirely immobile, fingertips motionless against his lips, and it was only the sound of his breathing that convinced John he was alive.

          Finally the silence was broken by the smallest, saddest word John had ever heard.

          “Why?” Sherlock wasn’t sure how the word escaped him, but it did. It had been screaming in his brain since John’s frankly baffling pronouncement. John tilted his head at Sherlock in that way that strongly called to mind a confused puppy.

          “Why, what?”

          “Why would you be willing to die to save me?”

          Sherlock can see John’s throat, can hear him swallow hard. His voice comes out almost impossibly gentle. “You’re Sherlock Holmes. World needs you.”

          Sherlock looks over at him sharply. “So you were sacrificing yourself for the greater good?”

          John gives a one-shoulder shrug. “It was worth a try.”

          Sherlock goes quiet again, knowing he can’t continue this without saying something truly dangerous. He nods, once, and leaves John sitting at the kitchen table, staring at nothing.

          He lets it roll around in his mind for a week afterwards. The knot in his throat won’t go away, no matter how many times he insults Anderson. Solving a case does nothing to ease the tension in the pit of his stomach. He is not a man that holds with intuition, so why should he have a feeling as if something is going to happen?

+

          John leaves it alone, but it isn’t easy. Sherlock has a case and John follows. Sherlock is brilliant and John is admiring. For all that things are the same; John can’t help feeling a strangeness between them. Maybe it is the weight of their unfinished conversation, really a whole collection of unfinished conversations. And maybe you can only know each other so long before that weight starts to crush you. Maybe there are only so many times you can look at someone and realize, you’ve killed for this person, you would die for this person. Maybe at some point it all becomes too much and you can’t avoid talking about it anymore.

          And since John is likely more aware of this than Sherlock, he imagined he’d be the first to break. He was therefore terrifically surprised when it was Sherlock who suddenly flicked off the telly and turned to him. It was one of their quiet nights, John was reading and Sherlock alternating between writing on his website and deriding the program he was watching about criminal profiling.

          “I should apologize to you, John.”

          John nearly dropped his book. He managed to set it down on the arm of his chair and was about to ask Sherlock to elaborate when he forged ahead with no response. “I once said to you that heroes don’t exist. I believed that, at the time.”

          “But you’ve changed your mind?” John was still struggling to see where Sherlock was going with this, but was sufficiently intrigued.

          “You’ve changed my mind. You told me to run. You would’ve died to end him, and to give me a chance to get free. I don’t know if that isn’t the very definition of heroism.”

          John’s surprised to feel his throat go tight. He swallows a few times. “Well. That’s… thanks, I suppose. I’m not sure if you’re right, though. I mean, I’m sure there are heroes. I’m just not sure I’m one.”

          Sherlock shakes his head vigorously. “If you aren’t one, John, then there aren’t any. I can’t understand why you would’ve done that.”

          “You did the same thing, Sherlock. Tried to save me. I think that’s what we do. We… save each other.”

          “Is that why you stay?” John just tilts his head. “You said, before, that of course you have reasons for being my friend, for staying, even when it’s dangerous or annoying. You stay because you think you have to save me?”

          “I don’t think I have to, Sherlock. I know I want to.” And John’s voice has gone soft, and Sherlock is tapping his fingers against his lower lip, thoughtful, and his eyes are closed, and John doesn’t know what’s coming but something in his chest is burning, and he finds himself struggling to take steady breaths. When Sherlock rejoins the conversation, it’s to echo his earlier unanswered question.

          “Why?”

          And for all the man’s ego, he means that question with everything in him. And that does it, really. John’s out of his chair and in front of Sherlock before he thinks about it, or plans it. His body has taken over and he is powerless to stop it, but he probably wouldn’t even if he could, because he goes to his knees before Sherlock’s chair, and takes his hand, and Sherlock’s eyes fly open at the contact, and the hitch in his breath gives John all the permission he needs to lean forward, to push his lips against his idiot friend’s hair, and when he feels Sherlock’s arm go around him, and the hand John is holding squeezes back, he doesn’t think before he moves his mouth lower, kissing a light path from Sherlock’s forehead to his mouth, which meets his without pausing, as if he’s gone on autopilot in the same way John has.

+

          But Sherlock Holmes does not turn his brain off, not ever, not even when John is kissing him this way, and he unthreads his fingers from John’s and draws his arm back and pulls away, because this cannot be happening. He is startled and annoyed at his own trembling, why is that happening? Why is his heart beating out of his chest, why is his face hot, why are his eyes prickling? He allows himself to rest his forehead against John’s and whispers it again: “Why?”

          John takes Sherlock’s face into his own steady hands and breathes against his skin until Sherlock finally opens his eyes. John’s own eyes are fixed onto Sherlock’s, and oh! there are the answers. A thrill goes through him as he traces a finger over the crease between John’s eyebrows. “They’ve been there all this time.”

          And for once, John doesn’t need to catch up. He smiles and brings his mouth to Sherlock’s again, and with lips and tongue and teeth and warm, warm John, he gives Sherlock the rest of the pieces of this, the most important of all the puzzles.

+

          Now, when someone asks why, John finds he isn’t irritated. He still doesn’t answer, but he’ll think of the million reasons why, and smile.

+       

          Sometimes, when they are in bed and almost asleep, Sherlock will still lean into John and breathe the word against the nape of his neck. John will smile, even though Sherlock can’t see him, and whisper back, “You’re tall, and you make me laugh.” And Sherlock will relax, and kiss John’s neck. When he is in a dark mood, and boredom has him, and his brain won’t stop buzzing inside his head, sometimes then he won’t be able to form the words, and he’ll wrap his arms around John where he stands at the sink, or sit in front of John’s chair and lean his head into John’s lap. These times, John’s hands will find his and squeeze, “You are the most passionate man I’ve ever known, and you have fantastic hair.” John always gives him a new reason. Sherlock collects them and turns them over in his mind and tries to remember to be extremely grateful for this man, who will pause in putting away the shopping to push a hand into Sherlock’s hair and kiss him, and chase away his doubts with a chuckled, “You’re actually a fantastic listener, and you have enormous feet.” When John is in a hospital bed and Sherlock has his face buried in John’s belly and cannot stop tears from coming, when he is shaking for how close he came to losing this miracle of a man, and it was his fault always his fault run away John go go go – “You understand me,” John says, simply and boldly, and with a wry smile he adds, “and I adore the way you pronounce the word ‘anything.’”

+

          Sometimes, it isn’t Sherlock who asks. John will stop walking and Sherlock will turn around, and John will have that look on his face, the one that Sherlock will never tire of seeing, like Sherlock is something marvelous, but his tired face will hold a trace of doubt, and though he’s never asked why, Sherlock will kiss him in the middle of the busy sidewalk, and John will know it then, the biggest reason, the best answer.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Come Out of the Shade" by The Perishers


End file.
